His Last Duchess
by Retro Reader
Summary: My first fan fiction! I hope you enjoy it! Set soon after the events of ARCADIA and PREY... A note, a poem and a missing wife… (I'm sorry for the bad grammar in the first sentence- I can't work out how to edit it!) PLEASE FEEL FREE TO LEAVE ME REVIEWS!
1. Chapter 1

JUNE, 1967

""When it jumps, you "What? No!"

"When it jumps, you run!"

Snarling. Bared teeth, sharper than needles. Gleaming in the summer sun. Bawling. A baby bawling. It was getting closer…closer…

BANG.

Morse sat bolt upright, and a sense of relief washed over him as he recognised the walls of his room. His heart was pounding, sweat dripping off his forehead. He wiped his eyes and let himself fall back onto his pillows. Daylight was dripping in through the half-shut blinds, dancing on the opposite wall. As Morse watched, the light seemed to transform into contorted shapes, like macabre puppets in a gothic theatre. The shapes seemed to writhe on the wall, twisting and turning like a trapped viper. They turned dark too, as if a great shadow had been cast of them. The mass of shapes suddenly formed into… Morse shook his head, as if to shake his memory away. Richardson's store, the explosion which nearly cost him what he had come to call his closest friend, the jars of baby food which had contained those shards of glass. What had happened to the world? What had-

BANG. BANG.

This time Morse was awake. He scrambled up and hastily unlocked the door, shading his eyes as the bright light of morning poured in through the open door.

"'Mornin' sunshine. Or should I say afternoon?'

There in the doorway stood Thursday. Morse looked back into his dark room and just about made out the time. He groaned. He should have been at the station three hours ago.

"You know what you need, Morse? A dog. Not a big one or anything, just a little one. You could take it for walks, you know, and what-have-you. Never know who you'd meet on a walk."

They were sat in the local pub, deep in a corner away from the riff-raff and drunken low-lives of Oxford. Light poured in through the coloured window behind Morse, and he could hear the noises of daily life on the streets outside.

"Of course, you might have to walk it early in the morning before work..."

"Uh…Actually, I'm not too good with animals, sir."  
Thursday nodded. Instead of pressing the matter further, he reached into his coat pocket and produced his neatly wrapped sandwiches, as he did every lunchtime whilst on the job.

"What have we got today, then?" He looked at his young partner, and waited for his usual guess as to what was inside his sandwich. Morse had never been wrong. But Morse wasn't listening- instead, he had his eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. Thursday waited a moment longer, then he followed Morse's stare. When he had deduced that Morse had just zoned out, as it were, he tried again.  
"Well?"

This seemed to wake Morse from his contemplation. Morse fixed his deep green eyes on Thursday. Noticing the sandwiches, he said quickly; "Oh, um… Corned beef. Its on sale down at Mallard's today"

Morse's eyes drifted back to the spot he had been staring at before. Thursday unwrapped his sandwiches, and finding that they were pickle and not corned beef, turned a concerned eye in Morse's direction. Morse's eyes, in turn, weren't concerned. To Thursday they looked dead. He had seen many a good copper in his time with the same look. Morse was never wrong.

"Pickle" he said at last, taking a meagre bite.

"Oh," came the reply.

They sat there in silence for a moment or two, then Fred Thursday finished his sandwich, picked up his coat and said in a voice he had tried to make light;  
""Come on then Morse, back to work.'

Back at the station, Morse seemed back to his usual self. That didn't stop Thursday and Bright keeping a close eye on him. Through the glass walls of Bright's office, the two watched Morse, who was sat at his desk, fingers poised at the typewriter. After a moment or two, Morse must have forgotten what he was about to type, for he pushed away the typewriter. This, in turn, pushed a sheaf of papers off his desk which had just been placed there by a new boy, scattering them across the polished wood floor. Morse collected them, and began to flick through them, and Thursday noted that Morse didn't really look at them. He did look at one, however. At first it was just a passing glance before he turfed it to the bottom of the pile, but then he pulled it out from the back and re-read whatever was on the crumpled paper. He then turned the paper over, as if looking for something. Finding there was nothing there, he turned the paper around again and then hurried to his seat. He was just about to pick up the telephone when Thursday appeared? "'What have you got there, Morse?"

"Here," He said, handing the paper to Thursday. "It was in that pile of paperwork that was just delivered to me."

'My Last Duchess," The older man read. "That's a poem, isn't it? Was it Tennyson?"

Morse took the paper back from him. "Um, Browning actually, sir."

By this time Bright had exited his office and had made his way over. "Whatever is a poem doing in your paperwork?" He took the poem and read it out loud.

"That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive. I call that piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands worked busily a day, and there she stands.'

"Bit short, isn't it?" Thursday commented. "No Thursday- its only a section of it. The first few lines, I suppose. Am I right, Morse?"

"Yes- but what I'm interested in is this. Look- some letters have been underlined in blue, see?" Bright squinted at the poem. "Oh yes- an I, a W, an N, and a T. Oh look, and a full stop!"

Thursday was puzzled. Morse picked up his notebook and scribbled something down. "Actually sir, what I thought this was was a message…a warning, as such."

""A warning?" Bright asked, agitated. "Whatever for?"

"Not, what, Sir. Who. "  
And with that, Endeavour Morse of the Oxford City police showed his commanding officers what he had written on the notepad paper. He had arranged the letters from the poem to form a new message. Thursday's eyes widened as he read the message.  
"WIN T.? As in, Win Thursday? My wife? Morse, you have got some explaining to do!"

"It's only a theory, sir! In any case, I think we should call, just to check."He picked up the phone. Thursday snatched it from him.

RING RING. RING RING. Then it cut off, leaving a eerie silence breathing down the other end of the receiver.

The line was dead.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been three hours now since they had found the Thursday home to be empty. Only the ticking from the old Grandfather clock greeted them when they rushed in through the front door. Morse had watched his commanding officer scour the house, more frantic, more worried than he had ever seen him. Morse had watched as his commanding officer called for his wife, panic rising through him like boiling, scalding water. Morse had watched his commanding officer stop at the top of the stairs, his search fruitless, and collapse into a sitting position, cradling the bannister as if he were a small child holding onto a beloved toy. The Grandfather clock chimed away quietly to itself from the lounge, breaking the silence that followed.

Morse now watched his commanding officer sit on one of the hard, plastic chairs in the corridor outside the office. He had been sat there for god knows how long. Just staring. Staring somewhere deep in the distance, looking at nothing in particular. Just… _staring_. Through the blinds of the station office, Morse watched as policemen and women passed Detective Inspector Fred Thursday. Some looked with pity at the once great DI. Some nodded quickly at him, making sure not to stare. Not that he saw, of course. Those were the ones who knew. Then there were the ones who didn't know. As Morse watched, some officers gave puzzled looks to their colleagues when they received no reply to their usual 'Good Morning, sir'.

"Poor man,' came a familiar voice. "I want to you take on this case, Morse."

Morse dragged his eyes away from the broken man in the corridor and saw Jim Strange in front of his desk.

"Me, Strange? But surely-"

"May I remind you, Morse, that now I am your superior officer you will do as I say. Take the case." He began to walk away, and then seemed to remember something. Calling over his shoulder, he said; "And its _DS Strange_ to you now, remember? Well, off you go, then." And with that, he turned quickly and caught Bright in the corridor. Morse watched them in deep conversation, with the occasional concerned look over to Thursday. Morse sniffed. It seemed all he did these days was watch people. If only he had kept a watch on Win Thursday.

…

"Morse! What a surprise! What are you doing calling me?"

Joan Thursday had just come off of her shift at the bank when one of the staff had appeared around the corner of the locker room with a call for her. She was incredibly surprised to hear the familiar voice of Morse down the line.

"Um… Miss Thursday, I… well…"

She leaned against the wall with the telephone in her hand.

"Well? Come on Morse, spit it out!" she said, jokingly.

"I really think you should-"

"One second, I'll be right back with you," she put the receiver down and signalled to the staff member that she wouldn't be long. He was tapping his watch, silently complaining that it was closing time. He always seemed keen to close up shop at lunchtime every day, 12 p.m. sharp. What was his name? Billy? Bobby? Ah, yes, that was it. Bernie. Bernie Hewitt. He was a quiet one, Hewitt. Young, too. Not that much older than she was. Always keen to finish his shift at 12 O'clock. Oddball, she thought.

She mouthed; 'won't be long!' to Mr Hewitt and picked up the telephone again. She watched the man slink away into the shadows.

"What is it?"

"I really do think you should come to the station…"

Joan's eyes widened.

"Why? Is it dad? Is he okay? What's happened?'

There was a pause down the other end of the telephone. "No, Miss Thursday, your father is alright. Its… its your mother. She's… _missing_."

By the time the receiver had hit the stone floor of the basement of the Bank, Joan Thursday was already out of the door and into the bustling street outside.

….


	3. Chapter 3

Morse had left Joan to take her father to his brother's house in Jericho. The Thursday home was still being treated as a crime scene, so them staying there was out of the question. Sam had been called at work, too, but the station hadn't been able to reach him. Morse had given Thursday a quick, reassuring smile as Joan had taken him out of the station and into her car. He had just about managed to return the smile. He watched the car pull away and drive into the distance. When Morse could see it no longer, he turned and began to walk in the direction of Sam Thursday's work.

…

The factory was on the outskirts of Oxford, crammed into a bustling housing estate. As Morse walked through the dirty streets, he watched as children played with sticks and shabby toys. Terraced houses were pushed together, row upon row as far as the eye could see to house the growing population. Morse thought that he had liked the look of terraced houses, but not these ones. Smoke from the factory poured out of the narrow chimneys, which lined the crumbling roof like soldiers. The calls of the children to one another faded into the background as Morse made his way to the factory.

It took him a while to find the entrance, then found it unmanned and unguarded. Raising his eyebrows, he pushed the door and stepped cautiously inside. The inside of the building was empty, too. Only the churning of machinery could be heard thumping constantly, shaking the damp walls. Morse squinted as he tried to peer through the gloom. Suddenly, a telephone rang. Morse jumped, then recovered himself and looked around quickly to check that the coast was clear. He let it ring for a while, wondering whether or not to answer it. There was nobody else there to answer it, he thought. Relentlessly the telephone kept ringing. Ring, ring, ring, ring…

As he went to pick up the receiver, he heard a voice.

"That you, Morse?"

As soon as Morse looked up, the telephone abruptly cut off. He could just about pick out the features of Sam Thursday in the gloom.

"That's funny,' He continued, quickly. "The telephone, I mean. Not you!"

Morse looked back to the telephone, now hanging silently on the wall.

"Why is that strange? The telephone? What about the telephone?"

Sam moved towards the phone, picked up the receiver and inspected the curled wire spiralling from it. Still looking, he said;

"Well, its just we've had a bit of a problem with it all day. No calls coming through. Usually the lads get calls all the time- complaints from residents, mostly. But also from their wives, and things. But none today. Somethin' wrong with the connection, or the mains, or somethin', we were told. I didn't realise it had been fixed so quickly. I didn't think we could afford an electrician to come out here."

More motioned to the door. "Shall we go outside?"

Sam replied that he was just about to clock off for the day, so that was fine.

Both had to shade their eyes from the bright light of day compared to the grim dark of the factory interior.

"I love finishing my shift," Sam said happily. "I can see light again! Its so dark in that damn place. I hate it. So smoky and noisy-"

"Sam, you may be wondering why I'm here." Morse said, awkwardly.

Sam brought out a cigarette from his pocket and put it in his mouth.

"Well, yes, I am."

"I've been trying to reach you all morning-"

Sam nodded. "That damn phone, isn't it? Always works when you don't need it, never does when you do. Always the same."

"I-It's your mother. She's gone missing." Sam just stood there, agape, cigarette hanging loosely over his lips.

"Kidnapped, we think." Morse realised he wasn't making this any better for the poor boy. Sam still stood there, not moving, not saying anything.

"Er, well, not _kidnapped_ exactly… more… um, well…"

Morse decided to shut up.

After a while, Sam Thursday said in a very quiet voice; "Could you take me to the station, please?"

…

After Sam Thursday had left the station, telling the police all he knew about his mother's disappearance (which wasn't much), and made his way to meet with his sister and father, Morse had joined Strange and Bright for a review of the case.

"We are at a complete loss, " Strange was saying. "Me and the lads, I hate to say it, have no clue. Nothing to go on. No witnesses, no evidence. No handy cigarette stub or note left by the kidnappers- _if_ there is one."

" _The lads and I."_ Came Morse's voice, the first time he had spoken since the rendezvous began.

"What, Morse?" Came Bright.

Morse looked up. "Oh, it was just what Sergeant Strange said. 'Me and the lads', when in correct English it should be 'the lads and I."

Strange rolled his eyes. How many times had he tried to correct Morse as to his new position. Perhaps, he thought, Morse just didn't want to accept that now _he_ was of a higher position than him…

"In any case," Bright was saying, " We've got a missing woman on our hands. A _police wife_! We are all incredibly fond of Win Thursday. That is why she is our utmost priority now."

"We still don't know if she is missing, sir. For all we know, she could have gone off on a jolly someone with a mate. Perhaps she's had one too many at the bingo hall.' Strange protested.

"That's not the Win Thursday we know, DS Strange. And anyway, what about this note DC Morse found?"

"Come on, sir! No disrespect to Morse, here, but I don't think there's anything in it. I think that business is slow, its boring for the life Morse is used to, so he's trying to fill that gap with some half-imagined mystery."

Morse stood up, and said, coldly: "That still doesn't change the fact that _Win Thursday is still missing and has been for a number of hours now._ She always keeps in touch and wouldn't have gone this long without telling someone. This isn't a 'jolly' as you so kindly put it- Win Thursday has been kidnapped. I'll stake my reputation on it."

And with that, DC Endeavour Morse stormed out of the office, out of the station and pushed his way through the busy Oxford streets below. The two men left in the room could do nothing but stare at each other, flabbergasted.


	4. Chapter 4

Morse had let himself into the Thursday's house using a key he found hidden under a cracked flowerpot. The house was empty- Win had disappeared over 48 hours ago now and the CID had collected their meagre evidence and cleared out. Only a stray, ripped strand of yellow tape reading: "CRIME SCENE-DO NOT ENTER" flapped weakly in the cold breeze, droplets of stagnant rainwater running down the brash slide and splashing onto the porch below.

He had expected the house to be empty- Fred, Joan and Sam had all moved into a small, squat, semi-detached council house in Jericho belonging to Fred's brother. However, when Morse wandered into the lounge, he was surprised to see Sam Thursday slouched in an armchair (his father's armchair, he noted), staring out of the curtained window. The sun pushing through the orange curtains gave a sepia effect to the cigarette the boy was smoking, making the smoke curling from end look as if it was still on fire as it escaped into the room. Before Morse had chance to even clear his throat, Sam said, without looking up at his uninvited visitor;

"I'm not even allowed to smoke these," with a slight flick of cigarette. "Mum doesn't like it in the house."

He smiled, but it was a false, empty smile. His eyes were still fixed on something in the distance.

"She doesn't even know I've taken them up."

Morse moved closer into the room, and was about to say something when Sam continued.

"I blame the lads at work. They're always sneaking off behind the sheds to have a smoke. Just like naughty school boys."

Casting an eye to the curtains, Morse noticed there was a slight crack letting in a slim shaft of light. Through this gap he saw a mother pushing a baby in a pram. In a moment, they were gone-disappeared. Ghosts of the Richardson's' case came back, calling from the dark recesses of his mind.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" Morse pulled the curtains apart, as if to banish the apparitions that thrived in the shadows of his mind. Sunlight filled the room, making it almost too light.

"Dad thinks I am. And I was, this morning. But I quit. Left. Resigned. _POOF."_ And he made a flicking gesture with his hands indicating a disappearing act.

"Why would you do that?" Morse queried.

Sam stubbed his cigarette out on a pristine ashtray, staining the white surface with a slash of dark embers. Dying smoke trickled out of the tray, dancing dismally in the light. Instead of answering Morse's question, he asked;

"Want a cuppa?" and he heaved himself out of the low armchair and moved to the kitchen, without waiting for a reply.

"Thank you," Morse said quietly, frowning after Sam, deep in thought. He heard the sound of water hitting the inside of the kettle and the low hiss of the kettle boiling. He opened a window in an attempt to clear the room of the dark fog from the cigarette. A group of photographs in small brass frames lined the mantelpiece; one of Thursday and Win's wedding taking centre space. It was an old photograph- dog-eared, slightly blurred- but he could clearly see the happy couple. And what a happy couple they were! They were young then, but it was the same face of his superior. Morse had never seen him so happy. But then something in that grainy, monochrome photograph caught his eye. In the mass of confetti and people swarming the newly-weds, one figure was captured in the bottom left of the frame. Half of his body was cut off by the camera. But Morse wasn't interested in the missing half of the wedding guest's body. He was much more interested in the book the man was cradling. Through the aged pixels of the decades old picture, Morse could just make out the title of the well-thumbed volume.

" _ **His Last Duchess and other poems"**_

Morse turned as Sam came back into the room, with a blank expression on his face. He placed the two mugs on the coffee table with shaking hands, spilling a little on the clean surface. His uneasy eyes rested on Morse for a moment, then he said vaguely:

"Tea."

With a thankful nod Morse took the old mug and took a sip. It was weak, and lukewarm. He quickly replaced it back on the table and took the photograph off the mantelpiece.

Pointing to the mysterious figure in the wedding photo, Morse said:

"Sam, can you tell me who this is?'

The young Thursday turned his head and squinted slightly, as if he had only just been confronted by the harsh glare of the sunlight pouring in through the large bay windows.

"That? That's…" He paused, as if searching for the name in the hazy oblivion surrounding the young man's mind. "That's uncle Harry".

Sharply, Morse said: "Uncle Harry? Your father's brother, I presume?"

Slowly, Sam nodded. "The one we're staying with. In Jericho. Dad's there now."

And with that, Morse was out of the house. Sam heard the policeman's footsteps echo down the drive and fade as he hurried down the quiet street outside. Sam Thursday waited a moment, then produced another cigarette from his pocket and lit it, watching the dark smoke spiral upwards to the ceiling above.


	5. Chapter 5

"Ah. Mr Morse, isn't it? I thought you might come and visit Freddie. 'Course, I thought you might've rung or somethin' to warn us. Ah, not to worry though, not to worry"

Harry Thursday's large frame almost took up the whole frame of the front door. Beckoning Morse inside, he turned and continued;

"Freddie's upstairs, if you want him. Joan's gone to the shop – oh! Don't mind your shoes, son. Leave 'em on! Not to worry, not to worry. Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, Joan's popped down the shops- we've run out of tea, see, and well, Lord knows where little Sammy is. You know what boys that age are like- cant tame 'em!"

Morse had been following the man through his small, dark hallway in which boxes upon boxes were displayed haphazardly on the floor, and Morse had to pick his way through to avoid tripping. He had been desperately trying to get a word in edgeways, but Harry Thursday's endless chattering was quite effectively putting a stop to that.

"Mr Thursday, I actually-"

"Ah! Harry, please! Or uncle Harry, if you want."

"Oh, sorry. Err… _Harry._ "

"Ah! Not to worry son, not to worry."

Morse wondered just how many times 'Uncle Harry" would turn that phrase whilst Morse was in his house.

"I actually wanted to speak to you… Harry. I'm sure DS Thursday isn't up to seeing anyone as of yet."

Harry led Morse into what Morse believed to be the sitting room. In honesty, Morse couldn't really tell as there were even more stray, brown boxes filling up every available space, leaving much to the imagination. Harry shoved some boxes on the settee out of the way and sat down, indicating for Morse to do the same.

"That's very true, son. But me? Whatever could you want me, for? I hope I'm not in trouble!"

Morse smiled. "I can assure you you're not in any trouble, Mr Thursday. I just wanted to ask you about this photograph. You may remember it, its of your brother's wedding."

Harry took the old frame from Morse and gazed at it, reminiscence glazed in his eyes. "Ah yes," he said quietly. "Fred and Win's wedding. Lovely affair. I… I haven't seen this photograph for a long time."

It was the first time that Morse could study the man properly. He could hardly see the man who opened the door so amicably due to the darkness within the house contrasted to the bright of outside. Harry did look like his brother, Morse decided. They both had similar shaped faces and eyes, but Harry was a little older than his brother, he guessed. There were laughter creases around Harry's eyes and his hair was much more grey and much thinner than his brother's. Morse gently guided Harry Thursday out of memory lane and back into the present.

"Is this you, Mr Thursday?"

The man's eyes glistened. "Yes. Yes it is." He spoke much more quietly now, as if all the joviality bursting within the man had expired the moment the photograph emerged from Morse's coat pocket.

"The book, Mr Thursday, you are holding there. ' _My Last Duchess and Other Poems_ '. I was wondering if you could tell me about it?"

Such fine details of the case such as the secret message hidden within the poem hadn't yet been released to the general public.

"Why do you want to know about that for?"

His eyes were hard, but were still glistening. " It's just a book I had from my uni days. I was given by… a _friend._ J..Just before the wedding. I really don't see-"

"Can you tell me who this friend was?"

"I really don't-"

"Mr Thursday! It is vital to the well-being of Win Thursday, your sister-in-law, that you tell me _who gave you this book._ "

Harry Thursday wavered, the untroubled, jolly man who had let Morse into his tiny home just a quarter of an hour before gone.

"Her name was Katharine. Katharine Green."

"'Was'? Do you mean she's dead?"

"No! Well, I don't know. She might be. Green was her name then. It might have changed since. I haven't seen her in… must be twenty years. Twenty-two? We had a bit of a thing, Kitty and I. Didn't last long, but… Anyway, she went to London and I came out here to Jericho. It was just a gift, that's all. The book. It was just a 's her, stood in between those two cars."

He pointed to a woman stood between two small cars in the photograph. She was tall, and had a mass of wavy brown hair that flowed to her shoulders.

"That's Kitty. Pretty, wasn't she? She just left one day. Prob'ly found another man. Ran on the night, like. One letter, that's all I got. Not even an explanation. Anyway, I moved out here, and-"

"You never married."

"Yeah, that's right. Perhaps I thought, I don't know, that she'd come back. She never did, though. Sometimes I fancied I saw her, across the street. You could never miss that hair. But then she would disappear behind a passing car, or bus. That's if it was her. "

Morse stood up. "Thank you for your time, Mr Thursday. I hope it wasn't too… painful, for you."

As he picked his way through the jumble of brown boxes strewn across the floor, Morse wondered if they had been left from when Harry moved in, all those years ago. "A heavy heart and even heavier boxes" Morse thought to himself. What secrets was this man keeping hidden from the world, concealed by a counterfeit, cheerful character? There was something this man wasn't telling Morse, and he would endeavour to find out what it was.

The last thing Morse heard as he left the room was Harry, in almost a whisper, saying; "Not to worry, not to worry.'

Morse wondered just how much Harry Thursday had to worry about.

…

As Morse left the front door of the shabby, squat council house of Mr Thursday in Jericho, he stared at the photograph in his hands. So many jovial faces, confetti flying over the couple like bullets whizzing past. One moment, Morse thought, caught in time, can reveal so many things. The next thing he knew, Morse had collided with somebody on the garden path.

"Hey! Watch where you're… Oh! Hello Morse!"

Joan Thursday laughed. "If it had been anyone else, I'd have told you to watch where you're going, but I suppose I'll let you off."

She laughed again, then stopped short. "That's the first time I've laughed, since…"

Morse stooped down to pick up the plastic bag full of tea leaved Joan had dropped, and passed it to her.

'I'm so sorry, Miss Thursday."

She took the bag of shopping off Morse, and as she did, she caught sight of the photograph poking out of his pocket.

"Is that… Mum and Dad's wedding photo? That's usually on the mantle."

"Yes… well, its needed for the investigation." It wasn't really, but he didn't want to admit to Joan that the only promising lead had just run cold.

"Oh. Well, can I help?"

Morse showed Joan the woman stood between the two cars, and without mentioning her links to her uncle or the case, asked Joan if she recognised her. It was worth a shot, he thought.

"Well.. she's definitely familiar. "

Morse looked up quickly. "You're sure?"

Joan nodded. 'Positive. I can't place her, but… yes, I've definitely seen that face before. It's the hair. You can't miss hair like that. I think… I think ive seen her more recently than that picture, though… Yes! That's it. I must have seen her in a photograph somewhere. I can't remember where, though. Sorry I can't be more of a help."

She began to walk towards the front door.

"That's fine, miss Thursday. You were more than helpful."

Morse let himself out of the decrepit garden gate and began to saunter down the road. It seems every lead Morse had vanished. Just like Win. And what was worse, like any missing persons case, the longer the victim is missing, the worse the outcome. And it was getting on for three days since Win Thursday was discovered missing. He looked down sadly at her young, smiling face in the photograph. The happiest day of her life. If Morse was a religious man, he would have prayed fervently for her safety.

"Oh! Morse! I've just remembered where I've seen that woman before!"

"Yes?" Morse cried eagerly.

"I've seen her photograph on Mr Hewitt's desk at the bank."

…


	6. Chapter 6

When Morse had asked to see Mr Hewitt at the bank that afternoon, he had been quite rudely told by a short, squat man that he wasn't in until tomorrow, and anyway you had to book an appointment to see him. He's a very busy man, the bank clerk told Morse, too busy for the likes of him. When Morse produced his Police ID, however, the little man's demeanour became far more welcoming. There was still no chance of Morse meeting with this elusive Mr Hewitt until the morning, at any rate. Morse thanked the man and made his way back into the police station.

There, he sat at his desk and poured blindly over the reams of paperwork which had tenuous links to the case, if they had any link at all. His thoughts lapsed into a repetitive cycle of the same thoughts dancing around inside his head, taunting him. Where was Win Thursday? Where? Morse slammed his fist down hard on his desk in an attempt to repel the demons spiralling out of control in his head.

"Whoa! You all right there, matey? Desks don't come cheap, you know."

Morse looked up. Strange. The last person Morse wanted to see.

"Sorry, Strange…" He grumbled, burying his head further in the paperwork in attempt to block out his superior officer's voice.

"Well, I've just brought this back to you. The lads in the lab cant find anything on it- just your fingerprints, Thursday's and the lads who work on paperwork."

Strange passed the note which started this whole mess to Morse and jaunted off into Bright's office. Morse grasped the note and was about to rip it into tiny pieces when he noticed something.

" _That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive. I call that piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands worked busily a day, and there she stands."_

Morse saw the letters underlined in blue, which spelled out the message. But he looked closer… Under more letters, a very fine pen had been used to underline. The ink was yellow, and so had been dismissed during the panic of finding the message before. He snatched a pencil and notepad from his desk drawer and noted down the new letters. He then jotted down the original message and put the two together. The new message read;

WIN T IS SAFE.

After sharing his findings with Bright and Strange, Morse had breathed a sigh of relief. He kicked himself for not spotting the yellow ink earlier, but he was glad Win was safe- at least according to the note. He was desperate to share this new information with her family, but under strict instruction by Bright to keep the facts solely to the Force, he had to restrain himself. Instead, he went home and watching the deep ambers and reds on the canvas of the evening sky melt into a deep blue and eventually fade to an unending blackness. Stars began to poke out of the oblivion of night. Morse let the faint sound of wind brushing past through the trees outside of his window gently lull him to sleep.

The next morning Morse was up early and ready to take on this dubious character of Mr Hewitt. But when he entered the office of the man, he was suitably shocked at the good-natured, obliging young chap who greeted him.

"Hello there!" said Mr Hewitt rigorously shaking Morse's hand. "You must be Inspector Morse! My name is Mr Hewitt. Please! Call me Bernie! My colleague told me about your visit yesterday. I'm so sorry I wasn't there- I had the rest of the afternoon off! I do hope he wasn't rude to you, he is a little… how should I say… _unsociable_ at times." Hewitt grinned.

Morse sat down and began to produce the wedding photograph from his pocket when the short, squat man arrived with a tray of tea from a side door. They sat in silence as he poured the tea with a surprising steady hand. When he left, Morse took the photograph from his pocket and slid it across the table to Bernie Hewitt.

"Mr Hewitt. Do you recognize anyone from this photograph? Anyone at all?" Morse noted that the photograph Joan had told him about had disappeared from the young man's thick, wooden desk.

"Well…" he stretched across the table to retrieve the photograph. He sucked the tip of his fountain pen as thought clouded his face. He could only be around 20, 22, Morse thought. And yet he was the manger of a high street bank… His hair was well trimmed and he had dark eyes. There was something familiar about this boy, Morse decided.

"Umm, well. I don't recognize him… or her… or that old dear with that truly awful hat' – Morse raised his eyebrows- " And the happy couple don't ring any bells… Oh." Hewitt stopped short.

"Oh?" Morse asked.

"Yes… Oh. I do recognize that lady there. She… she's my mother. Yes… yes I am sure that is my mother."

Morse strained to see the woman he was indicating. Sure enough, it was the lady Harry Thursday and Joan had picked out.

'Katharine… Hewitt, I take it?"

Mr Hewitt stood up and pushed closed a door, which was slightly ajar behind his desk.

"Yes, Katharine Hewitt. Everybody called her Kitty."

He then proceeded to punch in a numerical code on the door. Morse heard a locking sound and the large safe door stayed shut.

Something had changed in Hewitt after the mention of his mother. It seemed to Morse that she had passed on recently ( a quick visit to the newspaper records verified this hypothesis- she had died last year following a short illness) and so he left the conversation there. As he took his coat from the short, squat man his thoughts trailed back to Harry Thursday. He had no idea that his precious Kitty had died. Nobody had told him. And then, like picking a lock, Morse's thoughts unlocked. Kitty had left Harry twenty-odd years ago. She had disappeared in the middle of the night. And Bernie was twenty-odd years old. Slowly, the pieces of this case were slotting together.


	7. Chapter 7

Morse had found himself walking round to the pub he and Thursday had frequented so many times before after his meeting with Bernie Hewitt. He sat, alone, at their usual table with a untouched pint before him. Heavy drunks and withering old men pushed past Morse's table, causing it to rock slightly on its uneven legs. This movement caused the bitter, brown liquid within Morse's glass to swirl slowly, round and round, in a clockwise motion. The froth on the top grew with the movement, and it looked to Morse as if it was pulsating, like a heart beginning to fail. Morse stared deeper and soon the froth began to remind him of the events at the Mortmaigne estate last summer. It reminded him of the same froth that foamed at the mouth of that tiger. That damn tiger! Morse was sure he was going to die that day. He had never felt as sure as he had then of his own mortality. The unbearable heat as the sun lashed down on that expanse of maze… Morse could still feel it. He could still hear the tiger's ragged breaths, could still see the hunger flashing in its pus-green eyes. He could still hear himself, his voice shaking and desperate, and its equally wretched reply, whilst all the time the baby was bawling.

"When it jumps, you run!"

"What? No!"

"When it jumps, you run!"

Without realising, Morse propelled himself out of the stuffy bar full of heavy drunks and withering old men drinking away their sorrows, and into the bustling Oxford street outside. He didn't hear the landlord shouting after him, calling for the payment of his drink. Morse kept walking until he found a quiet side lane called Solitude Street. With his back to the cool stone wall, Morse breathed. With every breath in and out Morse let go of the torment tying him down. After a while he had returned to the same old Morse.

"Nothing is going to stop me finding Win Thursday. I will find her for Thursday, Sam and… and Joan."

He said out loud to a solitary crooked lamppost across the dark lane from where he was stood. As Morse left Solitude street, his eyes wandered to the ancient spires, the dreaming spires of Oxford, the spires that looked like they could touch the sky.

* * *

Morse returned to the station a little after two o'clock. In the distance he could hear an old church bell toll the hour. He had only been sat down a moment when one of the lads from paperwork came hurrying in.

"Um, Mr.. er…"- he checked the name on the letter he clutched in his hand- "Morse? I' ve got a letter for you."

He thrust the envelope down on Morse's desk and darted away, as quickly as he came. Morse looked down and began to tear open the letter when he heard a door open and Strange's voice from Bright's office call;

" You there, Hewitt! I need you to take tis down to DS Millbrook from County."

Morse's head snapped up and as the boy scurried back to collect the paperwork from Strange, Morse stopped him in his tracks.

"I'm sorry, but your name is Hewitt?"

The boy looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a particularly fast car.

"Umm… yes? My name is Hewitt…?"

"Do you have a brother, Hewitt? A brother called… Bernie?"

The boy- who was only around 18, Morse guessed- visibly relaxed a little. He grinned.

"Yep! Bernie's me older brother. He's swell, he really is. I-"

"Hewitt! Where the devil are you?'

"Coming, Sir.'

Hewitt flashed Morse a sheepish schoolboy grin and disappeared in the direction of Strange's voice. Morse sat back down at his cluttered desk and chewed on his thumb in thought. Then there was a tap at his shoulder.

"Hey, matey. Bright wants you for a catch-up on the case."

* * *

When Morse had arrived in Bright's spacious, wood panelled office, both Bright and Strange greeted him. He noted that the boy Hewitt had disappeared, presumably to send Strange's message to DS Millbrook from County. Morse had never heard of the man from his days as a County boy.

"So, Morse, it has been more than forty-eight hours since Win Thursday was kidnapped from her home. And we all know the risks involved when a missing person passes the forty-eight hour margin.'

All three men shuffled uncomfortably in their seats, unwillingly faced with the possible outcome of this case.

"It makes it even worse that the missing person is a police wife" he continued carefully. "And we are all so fond of DI Thursday. Now, according to reliable sources, namely her family, we have been told that it is immensely unlike Mrs Thursday to disappear for long lengths of time without leaving so much as a note, which points us towards the inevitable. With a short supply of manpower due to cuts, it appears that the only men available for this case are ourselves. Which is why we need to pool all of our information so we all have a clear understanding of what's what in this case to give us the best possible chance of locating Win Thursday and bringing her home, safe and sound."

Strange began to tell the two other men, in a very long-winded and sheepish fashion, that he had uncovered nothing at all.

Bright sighed and removed his glasses. He then proceeded to clean them with a once-white cloth and said;

"Let's just hope Morse has found anything of use."

Morse nodded and began.

"Whilst at the Thursday's home, a found a photograph of Thursday and Win's wedding. In it, I saw a man clutching a volume titled 'My Last Duchess, and other poems'-"

"What is the significance of some bloke holding a book?" Strange interrupted.

"The name of the poem the note came from, Strange! Keep up, man!" Bright snapped.

"Er… anyway. It seems this man holding said book is Harry Thursday, Win's brother-in-law. After going to see him, I learnt that he is a single man, who had his heart broken twenty-years ago after the woman he loved- a woman by the name of Katharine, or Kitty, who is also in the wedding photograph- absconded in the middle of the night. Miss Thursday told me that see recognised this Katharine from the wedding photograph as a woman in another photograph on her colleague, Mr Hewitt's, desk at the bank. He told me that his mother was indeed Katharine Hewitt, who passed on last year. And Mr Hewitt from the bank, is no other than Hewitt from paperwork's older brother. "

Morse finished.

"I see. Good work, Morse. You could take a hint or two from this officer, Strange."

Strange grunted.

Bright stood up and looked at a photograph taken from the Thursday's home of Win Thursday. He stared hard at the picture for a moment, and then said;

"But how does any of this help us find her?"

He slammed the photograph down on his desk and paced the room.

Morse looked at the photograph, but he had to look away. The sight of Win Thursday's pleading eyes was too much for Morse to bear.


	8. Chapter 8

When a missing person's case passes the 72-hour mark, every passing moment reduces the chance of finding that person alive. Morse's startlingly blue eyes watched as the hands of the station's clock ticked around and around. Every passing minute. It felt like Win Thursday was slipping through his fingers like sand on a beach. And with every passing minute, more and more sand was disappearing.

But what could he do? There were no leads, no clues, not a single scrap of evidence. Morse could only guess what her family were going through. Thursday had refused any and all visitors, Joan was staying with Harry and Morse didn't really want to speak with Sam after their last encounter. All Morse wanted was for Win to be safe, but with every passing minute, it seemed to him that this wasn't the case. How he wished this wasn't _his_ case! All the time he could see Win's eyes in that photograph. They haunted him. Haunted him just like that tiger-

" 'cuse me sir?"

Morse looked up and saw Hewitt, the paperwork boy, standing before him holding a letter.

" 'cuse me sir, I've got a letter here for DS Strange but he ain't here so what should I do with it, sir?"

Morse craned his neck round to see Strange's empty desk with a wad of paperwork perilously perched on top of it.

"Oh. He should be here… I'll give it to him later. Thanks, Hewitt."

The boy grinned. 'Just call me H. Everyone does. Or H-Dog, or The Cool Guy, or the Fifth Beatle-"

"I think I'll stick with Hewitt, if you don't mind."

"Not to worry, sir. Not to worry."

That phrase. The same phrase as Harry Thursday had used many times.

"Tell me, Hewitt. What does… H-Dog stand for?"

"Harry! It stands for Harry. Or Harold, if you want the proper name. But then again, only me mum called me that. Me dear old mum.."

So, the bank manager and the paperwork boy. They were both Harry Thursday's sons. From their meeting, it had struck Morse that Harry was a lonely man. He didn't know about his children.

"By the way, sir, I found this on the floor. It's part of your case, isn't it? It won't do you no good leaving evidence around willy-nilly like!"

The boy hesitated a moment, as if waiting for something which didn't arrive, then left.

He had given Morse the paper on which the Browning poem was written.

How could it have been lost? He had kept it safe with the meagre pile of evidence he had collected.

Morse stopped. The colour drained from his face. The note's hidden message didn't say; 'WIN T." or even "WIN T IS SAFE." Somehow, he couldn't even tell how, Morse had failed to see the clear pencil-drawn lines under more letters on the page. They spelled out a simple phrase.

WIN T IS IN THE SAFE.

He was out of the station like a shot.


	9. Chapter 9

"I'm sorry sir, but Mr Hewitt is not available for visitors now!"

Hewitt's small, squat secretary tried with all his might to impede Morse's entry to the bank, but he was no match for the detective. The door crashed open, sending the little man flying into a wall. Morse stormed into Hewitt's office, and cried;

"Where is she, you bastard?"

But his thunder was greeted with a silence broken only by the ticking of a clock on the wall. With ragged breaths, Morse pushed his way past paperwork and chairs to the large safe door on the opposite end of the room.

Win was in there. He was sure of it.

There was only one problem. The door has a numerical lock on it, deadlocking it to the outside world. He had seen Hewitt put in the code before. He had just been too far away to see the numbers. The numbers, 0-9, were printed in black on tough metal keys. Four of those numbers would bring Win to freedom.

But what could they be? Morse rifled through paperwork, scattering them across the floor in disarray. It had to be a year, Morse was sure of that. What about the year "My Last Duchess' was published? 1841? No, it was 1842. It wasn't that- it just didn't seem right to him. Morse wasn't willing to test it, either. The mechanism was a pretty advanced one, and one that would undoubtedly set off an alarm or permanently lock itself should the wrong combination be put in. No. Morse had to think. He had one chance.

"Think about the case, Morse!"

The case. Bernie Hewitt. Win Thursday. Harry Thursday. Katharine Hewitt. When did this case start? When will it end?

The case started twenty-two years ago. When Katharine Hewitt disappeared into the night carrying a secret, and a child.

Morse didn't hang around. He punched in the digits into the keypad, and for the first time in a long time, prayed.

.

After what seemed like an eternity, the safe door swung open.

* * *

Morse had never felt so happy in all his life. Win was down there, her hands tied and her mouth gagged, but otherwise unharmed. The brightness from the outside office in stark contrast to the dismal interior of the safe seemed to dazzle her. Morse ran to her, untied her, and despite himself, hugged her.

"Are you alright, Mrs Thursday?"

Win straightened her skirt and patted down her hair. She wiped her tear-stained eyes.

"I am now."

Taking her by the hand, Morse carefully lead her out of the safe door and into the street outside, where Bright was waiting with a squadron of men. Bright accompanied her into a police car, and before he got into the car, gave Morse a brief salute. Men filed into the office and returned shortly with the little man, howling in protest.

"Where is he?" Morse growled, his previous relief vanquished.

"He…he went to find solitude"

The little man was shaking.

The uniformed officers could only watch as Morse sped off, weaving through the hundreds of officers and cars that had arrived at the scene with a look of steel engraved on his face.

* * *

When Morse arrived at Solitude street, he found Harry Thursday stood in front of Bernie Hewitt.

The latter had a gun, and was pointing it at the side of his own head.

Thursday had his palms facing Hewitt, a look of desperate concern on his lined face.

"You don't want to do that, son. It's not a nice way to go. Please, put the gun down. Not here. Don't do it here.'

Morse began to advance on Hewitt, silently. The boy's back was facing Morse, and he was close enough to see the young man was shaking violently.

"I may be a complete stranger, but please. Think of your poor parents, think of them. Whatever has happened, son-"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" Hewitt screamed, and tightened his hold on the trigger.

Harry looked taken aback. He wasn't aware thatit was his own son who was about to kill himself, right before his very eyes.

"But he should, shouldn't he, Bernie?"

It was Morse's turn to speak. Hewitt whipped around. Perspiration and tears mixed on his face to form a cocktail of desperation.

"He should, because that's exactly what you are. His son."

"What?" Harry said.

"Shut the hell up!" Bernie cried. It was unclear to which man he was speaking to.

Morse continued, all the time advancing slowly on the boy.

"Harry is your father, isn't he? That's why Katharine left that night. She was unmarried and pregnant."

Harry's lined face fell. "Kitty…"

"She never told him, Bernie! He never knew!" Morse's voice echoed around the deserted street.

"He did!" Bernie cried, saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth. " He left us to fend for ourselves. Some father!"

He turned to face Harry, and pointed the muzzle of the gun square at his father's forehead.

From behind him, Morse tried to keep his voice level and calm, but fear was rising inside him.

"Look at him, Bernie. Look at his face. Is that the face of the man who would knowingly abandon his children? Look!"

Bernie waited a moment, let his arm drop, and held the gun pathetically, pointing weakly at the floor. Morse breathed a sigh of relief.

But then Hewitt swung round and pointed the gun at Morse.

"You had to take her, didn't you, Bernie?" Morse spoke quickly as perspiration began to drip down his own forehead. He could hear the blood pumping in his ears.

"You had to take Win Thursday because you had to punish your father. After your mother died, you swore revenge. You found him and realised the best way to cause him ain was to hurt his best friend, his brother. So you had to take her. You had to."

"I… I had to…"

"Yes. You had to." Morse began to advance on Hewitt slowly again.

Then something crossed the boy's face. Was it a sense of realisation? Or was it peace? Morse couldn't tell.

"I… I have to…"

In one quick motion, Hewitt brought the gun upwards and fired. His limp body fell to the cobbled ground in a slump. Crimson spilled out into the dirt.

Bernie Hewitt was dead.

Harry Thursday sunk to his knees, and clutched his son in his arms. A wail rang out. A wail of solitude. Harry Thursday had had a son for one fleeting moment, but he had disappeared like a candle in the wind. Morse turned away.

The sun was setting, casting long dark shadows from the spires of Oxford onto the pavements below. A single bird flew across the amber sky. Somewhere, a dog barked, calling for a companion.

DC Endeavour Morse left the grieving father in Solitude street, and walked towards the station, another lone figure treading the empty streets of Oxford.

* * *

 _"That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,_

 _Looking as if she were alive. I call_

 _That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands_

 _Worked busily a day, and there she stands."_


End file.
